Oddly Enough
by Hoodoo
Summary: I can't even begin to explain. A LGMXmen villians crossover. . .? I guess that'll have to do.
1. Unexpected Visitor

__

Disclaimer: No recognizable characters are mine. Any person or event that is slightly recognizable to you is a coincidence, but I'd certainly like to know about it! Please don't sue me for the drabble my mind vomits out.

Also, no offense to Bruce Coville fans by stealing his title. Like the rest of the fic, it makes no sense, but I like it.

__

Note: Since the Lone Gunmen TV show's been canceled, I figured: what the hell. Post this long, bizarre crossover with very little point on the site. It's been sitting on disc for way too long. Let me repeat myself: it's long and bizarre.

The crossover is due to a made up mutant (okay, Mary Sue) from the X-men. If you're at all interested in learning about Quinn, your best bet is to check out the stuff I've got posted in the X-men category.

For anyone who might possible care, this is a slightly different universe than the original. How, you may ask? Quinn's not dead! Oh, the joys of being an omnipotent author . . ..

Enjoy!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

****

Unexpected Visitor

A sharp buzz from the door alarm briefly interrupted Langly's and Frohike's argument. Byers looked up from his computer screen. Between the storm outside and the quibbling inside, it was hard to hear.

"Isn't it raining? Who could that be?"

"Go get it, Frohike," Langly insisted, giving the shorter man a shove.

"Get it yourself, hippie. No way am I letting you have this computer back. You've been on it all day."

"I've been trying to hack into the AT&T satellite all day. You're just going to look up porn!"

Byers, who'd listened to the fight for an hour, sighed dramatically. "Frohike, go find out who's out there."

"But—"

"The computer'll be here! Just go."

Mumbling obscenities under his breath, Frohike pushed himself away from the table. Langly smirked and continued typing madly.

The buzzing hadn't ceased.

Walking to the door slowly, Frohike was still too far away to make out distinguishing features of the person displayed on the monitor beside the door.

"Open up you guys! I know you're in there!" a woman's voice yelled over the noise from the alarm. A roll of thunder punctuated her words ominously. Byers watched Frohike's progress; Langly was absorbed in his computer screen.

"Who is it?" Frohike called, refusing to be hurried.

"Frohike! Open this door!"

He was near enough the monitor now to recognize the woman. The dark leather trench coat, the long hair, the set jaw . . . the torrential downpour soaked had her through, but she was unmistakable. He stopped, stunned, a hand on the doorknob.

"I swear to god, Frohike—I'm giving you the count of three to open this goddamn door or I'm blowing it open myself! I'm also betting I can hit you pretty good too." Frohike watched the woman pull a handgun and aim at the door. "One—two—"

Frohike scrambled and fumbled with the multiple locks. He threw open the door and made sure it remained between him and the woman. Without taking his eyes off her, he called over his shoulder,

"Langly! Your ex is here!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

All three men were shocked silent as she pushed passed Frohike. In two quick movements she holstered the gun and ran a hand over her hair to squeeze some of the rain water out. She was drenched.

"Please, make yourself at home," said Frohike sarcastically.

"Thanks," she replied absently. As he shut the door to the elements, she made her way through the dim maze of electronic equipment to the other two men. Slight squeaking from her boots and puddles left their mark where she walked.

"Quinn," Langly managed to squeak out, his hands poised at the keyboard but his hacking forgotten.

"Hi," she replied. "It's nice to see you. And you too, John. It's been a long time."

Byers gave a slight nod. He looked apprehensive. "You know I don't like guns in here."

"Take it easy. It's put away, safe and sound."

"Right," Frohike snorted, coming up behind her, "but what about you? I seem to recall a little incident that somehow managed to blow out a whole shelf full of monitors and a set of really expensive subwoofers. Not to mention the fact some of us were knocked out cold for an unspecified amount of time."

Quinn rolled her eyes. "If someone hadn't startled me, someone wouldn't have been knocked on his ass. Besides, I'm in better control now. You've got nothing to worry about from my gun or me."

Frohike muttered, "That's not what my gut tells me," but Quinn ignored it and turned back to the other two.

Langly caught her eye. "Um . . . so—what are you doing here?"

"I've got some trouble," she replied. Her tough-woman exterior cracked a bit; now she only looked waterlogged and tired. She dropped her noticeably bloodshot eyes. "I need help, guys, and I didn't know who else to ask."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the silence that followed, Quinn took a breath and steadied herself. She wished for a drink, but there hadn't been any for days, and little chance of one here. She broke the silence again.

"I'm not asking for charity. I've got the cash to pay."

With a tired movement she yanked a bundle of bills out of her duster and dropped it to the tabletop. It landed with a wet slap. It, like the rest of her, was dripping.

"Whoa—whoa!" Frohike exclaimed. "Get that hot money out of here! I don't want blood money! We've got enough problems as it is without spending that and getting tracked down for murder!"

"Give it a rest, Doohickey," Langly replied. "It's not hot. Right, Quinn? Or is that the kind of trouble you're in?"

She shook her head. "Never. It's bounty money—live money. No one got hurt." She paused, then added, "By my hand, at least."

Frohike threw up his hands. "Oh, that makes it so much better!"

"Ignore him, Quinn," Byers suggested.

"I usually do."

Frohike gave her a disgusted look.

"What is it you want exactly?" Byers continued.

"I need all the information you can give me on the Friends of Humanity organization. And a group that splintered off called the Genesis Project. I can give you some basic stuff to start with, but I don't have any hacking skills or knowledge of how to read the computer files.

"Will you help me?"

"Genesis," Byers mused. "Didn't I read that they were even more irrational than FOH? That they didn't just want to know who was a mutant, but to force them into concentration camps?"

"They don't just want to isolate us, John. They want to do a lot worse," Quinn informed him with conviction.

"Why's this so important? I'd think you'd want to stay as far away from nut jobs like them as you could," said Langly.

Quinn ran a hand over her face. They could see it was to cover tears.

"I've got a friend who's been taken into custody by Genesis. I need to get all the data I can on them and everything else so I can find him and get him out. Since they got him, it means they were on to me too. So, uh, I also need a place to lay low for awhile."

The three men looked to each other.

"Them?" Frohike muttered sarcastically, only half under his breath. "They're after you?"

He was met with sharp looks from his partners. Quinn's shoulders sagged, and she didn't reply.

"We'll see what we can do," Byers told her sincerely.

"Who's the paranoid one now?"

Again, Quinn didn't rise to Frohike's bait. She wouldn't even turn to the older man as she gave the other two a half smile in thanks.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Without a word being spoken, Langly was unanimously elected to take Quinn into the back. In the far corners of his mind, he was secretly glad. In the close corners, he was angry.

"You can sleep here," he told her shortly, indicating the door with a jerk of his thumb.

"Your room?" she questioned, in a surprised tone.

"It's most familiar, isn't it?"

"I was just thinking if that's what was planned all along I could have shown myself back. You could have stayed at your precious computer."

He glared at her.

Quinn held up her hands. "I'm sorry, Ringo. It just caught me off guard, that's all. I never expected you to offer me your room."

"Well . . ." his glare softened. "It's easiest, after all. I can be comfortable on the couch. You wanna take a shower? You're still soaked to the bone."

"That'd be nice."

Again, even though she knew the way, he lead her deeper into the building. At the bathroom, he flicked the light switch, and just as quickly flicked it back off.

"It may be best if you don't look at things," he told her.

Quinn laughed in spite herself. "Trust me. Nothing can compare to some of the places I've been lately. Lights, please. It's the only room in this place that isn't dim."

With a smile and slow shake of his head, Langly hit the switch again and entered. Quinn followed him inside. She watched as he pulled a clean towel out of the closet and started the water in the shower.

"Hot as can you can stand it, right?" he asked over his shoulder.

"Right," she replied slowly. Before he turned around, she asked, "Why are you doing this?"

She caught his slight shrug. When he turned around, his glasses were steamed over. "There's no reason for me not to, Quinn. Frohike's already taken over my computer."

"Porn?"

He grinned.

"Well," Quinn sighed, "since you're being so obliging, help me out of these damn pants."

He looked startled. "Excuse me?"

"Come on, Ringo," she insisted, shrugging her leather duster off and hanging it on the back of the door. "This leather is a pain in the ass to get off when it's wet. I need your help pulling. You're most familiar with it." With a mischievous gleam in her eye she added, "But if it's too awkward for you, I'll call Frohike back. Even though he pretends to hate me, he'd be more than willing to learn, I think."

"You may be right. Cyber geeks like us don't turn down offers like that. Lord knows we don't get any." As she stifled a laugh, Langly made sure the warped door was shut tightly before he turned back to her. "And because of that pathetic fact, I will help. Sit down."

Quinn undid the button and fly on her pants, then kicked off her boots, and with Langly's help managed to struggle out of the tight leather. It took some time, though, and by the end they were both cursing and sweating. The steam from the shower had filled the small room, and didn't help.

Finally she stood before him in only thin underwear and her shirt.

Trying to ignore the tightening in his stomach, Langly asked, "You need help out of that too?"

She smiled, and lifted it easily over her head. Langly swallowed, and resisted the urge to wipe his glasses off for a better view.

"That's new," he managed to say, indicating her single nipple ring.

"Yeah. You like it?"

He tried to shrug indifferently.

Quinn gave him a slight smile. "Listen. You got a work out pulling those pants off. You want to join me? Clean off some of that sweat?"

He choked, "I think it'd be replaced with a different kind of sweat."

She laughed out loud. Stepping up against him, she whispered, "Would that be so bad?"

Instead of answering, he asked, "Why're you doing this to me?"

"Hey, you started it. Not going back to your computer, drawing the water—"

"You asked me to take off your pants!"

"You asked to take off my shirt."

"You want me to take a shower with you!"

"You haven't said no."

Quinn carefully ran her hands up his back. She could feel his heartbeat, strong and fast, through his shirt. He wasn't looking at her any more. The steam had plastered his blond hair to him, and made his clothes damp as hers. One of his hands tentatively brushed her hip. She stretched up and kissed the sensitive spot under his ear.

"We were good together, weren't we?" he whispered, his eyes still closed.

"Oh yes . . ." She reached and gently removed his horn rims.

"And then you left."

"I seem to recall you freaking out."

"You lied to me!"

"I didn't lie!" Quinn retorted. "I just didn't . . . tell you."

"Exactly." Langly opened his eyes. Without his glasses, she was very slightly blurry. Her skin was shiny from steam and sweat. "What you do is illegal!"

"And breaking and entering plus industrial espionage isn't? The high level hacking you're so good at isn't?"

He tightened his lips and looked away again.

"You kill people. We try to get evidence to expose the truth."

She was silent.

A few seconds passed, and Langly whispered, "If only you'd told me. If Frohike hadn't shoved your photo into my face . . ."

"Then what, Ringo? You'd have been okay with it? If I'd come out and told you that while you and your D and D buddies were busy pretending to kill each other, I was out in the world actually doing it—then that would have been all right?"

He sighed a little. "Yes. No. Maybe. I don't know. Could you repeat the question?"

Quinn moved closer again and caught his face in her hands. "We were good together, Ringo. We had good times. I've missed you. Haven't you missed me, even a little?"

Without giving him a chance to say anything further, she pulled him down to her lips. He resisted a moment, too many conflicting thoughts in his head, then made a conscious effort to ignore them. The feel of her hands on his face, the taste of her tongue, the heat from her body was too much. Even as his better judgement screamed against it, Langly wrapped his arms around her slick waist and deepened the kiss.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Twenty minutes later, warm from the water and feeling cleaner than she had in a long long time, Quinn shut off the shower and stood with her head against the tiles. What was she doing here? What could the Lone Gunmen really do for her? They were only paranoid government watchdogs—ah, there was her answer. If anyone could ferret out the truth about the Genesis group, these three could.

Fine. Then the next question was: why was she suddenly so drawn again to Ringo Langly? He was the past. Not a mistake, and not a regret, but definitely the past. What was she thinking seducing him fifteen minutes after barging back into his HQ? What is going on, Quinn?

Langly didn't brush off her advances, she mused. Of course he wouldn't; even though he joked that 'cyber geeks' don't get propositioned, the statement was bare bones truth. But could it also mean he didn't think her a mistake? No regrets on his part?

Quinn was still trying to figure out her own mind, drifting in her thoughts, when Langly pulled back the shower curtain with a quick movement. It made her jump.

"Jesus, Quinn, I remember when nothing startled you," he remarked. "You okay? You're gonna get chilly again, standing there."

She hadn't known he'd stayed as she washed. She didn't comment that there was also a time nothing escaped her attention. Unexpectedly, she felt slow.

Langly held the towel open as an offering. "You're beat. Dry off, and go to bed."

Bed. She hadn't slept in a bed for a long time. Dazed, she nodded.

He must have noticed her stupor, because instead of leaving he helped her out and wrapped the towel around her. Carefully, she was dried, and even more carefully, her hair was combed out. The gesture was odd but comforting.

Covered with the towel Quinn followed Langly obediently from the bath to the bedroom. His room looked the same as she'd remembered, untouched by time: box spring and mattress on the floor, sheets and blankets askew, one wall dominated by a sound system, the others papered in old posters of heavy metal bands, various articles of clothing strewn about.

"Sorry about the mess," he said sheepishly, even as he dropped her clothing in a heap to the floor.

She managed to give him a smile. Her eyelids were heavy.

"So," he said, suddenly flustered. He snagged one of the blankets from the pile. "You crawl into bed. Sleep as long as you want. Tomorrow we'll start cracking down on Genesis, okay?"

He left her standing and made for the door.

"Ringo?" she whispered just as his hand took the knob.

He turned back. Her back was still to him. Her shoulders were slightly hunched.

"I've been through some tough times lately. It's been hard for me. I know it's early for you, but . . . would you . . . could you possibly just . . . stay with me tonight?"

Langly bit the inside of his lip. This wasn't a come-on, it wasn't like the sultry aggression Quinn tempted him with in the bathroom. She'd caught him off guard with that, and he'd responded with habit. She was exhausted out of her skull tonight—how would she feel tomorrow morning waking up next to him with a clearer head?

"If you won't, I understand," she continued. "I don't blame you. I understand."

Would he hate himself for turning down a woman who asked him to sleep with her? Langly didn't think Byers or Frohike would even be having a mental argument with themselves about this situation.

Well, maybe Byers.

"Sure, Quinn," he replied, keeping his tone low so his voice wouldn't shake, "I'll stay with you tonight."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The mattress was comfortably familiar. Langly's lean body was even more so as Quinn settled close his side. He had slipped an arm under her neck, like old times. Quinn carefully ran a hand over his stomach, across the line of hair that extended from his navel to his groin. He caught his breath quickly and his heartbeat came faster in response.

A wave of déjà vu slid over her.

But instead of riding the crest, Quinn let her hand rest. Sleep was crowding out coherent thought.

"Thank you, Ringo," she whispered into his chest.

A slight shifting and a warm kiss on her forehead eased her into unconsciousness.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


	2. The Ties that Bind

__

Disclaimer: No recognizable characters are mine. Any person or event that is slightly recognizable to you is a coincidence, but I'd certainly like to know about it! Please don't sue me for the drabble my mind vomits out.

Also, no offense to Bruce Coville fans by stealing his title. Like the rest of the fic, it makes no sense, but I like it.

__

Note: Since the Lone Gunmen TV show's been canceled, I figured: what the hell. Post this long, bizarre crossover with very little point on the site. It's been sitting on disc for way too long. Let me repeat myself: it's long and bizarre.

The crossover is due to a made up mutant (okay, Mary Sue) from the X-men. If you're at all interested in learning about Quinn, your best bet is to check out the stuff I've got posted in the X-men category.

For anyone who might possible care, this is a slightly different universe than the original. How, you may ask? Quinn's not dead! Oh, the joys of being an omnipotent author . . ..

Enjoy!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

****

The Ties that Bind

The next morning Langly made sure his door was securely latched before cracking his neck with a groan. He had managed to pull his ratty jeans on in the room, but had to dig for a fairly clean shirt. Quinn had shifted on the bed uneasily, and he hurried out the door. Tugging the shirt over his head and pulling his hair out of the collar, he shuffled down the hall to the main room.

"Well, look who's up before the crack of noon!" Frohike greeted him loudly from the computer terminal they'd fought over the night before.

Byers was, as every morning, systematically skimming through his newspapers. He watched Langly pour himself a mug of coffee and top it off with a shot of Irish Crème liquor. The younger man stared into his drink bleary-eyed.

"If Quinn's staying, you'll have to lock the alcohol up, buddy," remarked Frohike.

"Shut up."

Byers waited until Langly sat down before saying,

"I don't think it's a good idea to be sleeping with our clients."

"Shut up," he repeated. He didn't sound mad. "For anyone who wants to know, even though it's not their business, Quinn and I didn't do anything but sleep."

"Right," Frohike snorted. "You expect us to believe that shit?"

"Yes," Langly insisted. "Quinn asked me to stay with her—she's been through some tough times lately—so I did. End of story." He punctuated it with a swig of coffee.

Frohike continued to snort. "Really. And what horrible traumas has poor Quinn gone through lately? Missing a mark? Getting bilked out of her hard earned pay? Please enlighten us, hippie."

Langly glanced to Byers, but the bearded man only looked interested as well.

"She didn't tell me," he said quickly, taking another quick swallow.

Frohike laughed out loud. "Man, has she got you pussy-whipped! Snaps her fingers and you start drooling—"

"Morning, guys," Quinn interrupted.

Only Byers blushed at her catching the conversation. Frohike bit his own words off abruptly; Langly hid a twisted smile by bowing his head. Quinn ignored each of their reactions and walked to the adjoining kitchen. They heard her pull open the refrigerator.

She announced, "Thank god you have orange juice," as they listened to her pour herself a glass in the silence, then made her way to the couch to curl up.

Still silence.

"Oh please," she said, "don't let me stop your conversation. Continue. I insist."

They didn't. Frohike glared at her as if debating whether or not to go on; in the end he muttered something under his breath about her strutting around half dressed like she owned the place and swiveled back to his monitor.

Byers was obviously bothered by her choice of clothing as well. She'd found a pair of Langly's boxer shorts and a torn tee shirt to wear. The shirt was old and thin, and it was apparent she wore no bra under it. As Byers shifted uncomfortably, Quinn caught Langly appraising her openly. He glanced to her face, and she reflexively touched her lip with her tongue. He was abruptly interested in his coffee mug again.

Finally Byers cleared his throat.

"How are you this morning, Quinn?"

"I'm feeling pretty good. A good night's sleep sets a lot of things right."

Byers nodded and cleared his throat again. "Well then. I would appreciate it, Quinn, if you'd put some clothing on."

Quinn looked to him. He was still flushed, trying very plainly not to look at her.

"Well, John," she replied civilly, "here's the problem. I don't have any clothes."

Byers looked startled and Langly stared at her. Even Frohike stopped pretending to not be listening and straightened in his chair.

She continued. "The leather I wore last night . . . it's ruined. No chance in hell I can fit back inside it. And if you hadn't noticed, I didn't bring my overnight bag with me. When I opened my door to find a trashed apartment and a missing roommate, I didn't stick around to grab extra clothing. I high-tailed it out of Dodge and was only able to think clearly enough to make it here.

"So. I need to borrow something resembling decent to go shopping in. Frohike, can I borrow a pair of pants?"

Langly barely stopped himself from spraying Byers with a mouthful of coffee. Frohike spun on his chair to face Quinn, his cheeks red.

Very clearly he replied, "Go to hell, bitch."

Even Quinn looked startled at his remark. He didn't say anything else, and ignored the stares of his partners as he turned back to his typing.

Quinn gave herself a shake. "Okay. Langly, I guess I'll have to squeeze into a pair of yours," she said, pushing herself up from the couch and disappearing down the hallway again without pause.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

By the time she returned, Byers was adjusting his tie and readying his briefcase to head out the door to face the hustle of commuter traffic. He noticed Quinn step back into the room.

She had managed to find a faded and well-worn pair of Langly's jeans to fit into. They were slightly too tight, and definitely too long. A stringy rip just below their seat widened as she bent over to cuff the hems. Byers felt himself blushing again as he realized he was staring, then turned away with,

"Yes, that's much better, Quinn."

She straightened and gave him a grin. He shook his head and hurried out the door.

"Okay," she announced, "I'm off. You guys miss me, all right?"

"Quinn—take a look at this," Langly told her. He was standing behind Frohike, looking over the older man's shoulder into the computer monitor.

She frowned and walked over.

Blazing on the screen were various pictures of her. From various times, and various missions with the Brotherhood.

"Shit," she muttered.

"You were with the Brotherhood?" Frohike asked. "Why doesn't that surprise me?"

"I was hired, Frohike, not recruited. When Magneto was captured, I split. I don't have any loyalty to the Brotherhood, if that's what you're worried about.

"Where'd you get the collage?"

"Hacked into the Xavier Institute for Higher Learning mainframe," he replied, slightly proud.

"This isn't from the government?"

"No. But I bet because Xavier himself is on the side of the law, he's shared what he has with the powers that be."

Quinn chewed on her thumbnail. "The X-men wouldn't necessarily be able or willing to track the different aliases I've got." She was quiet, lost in thought a moment. Finally she shook her head. "No. I'm not worried about Xavier's group. This is just their own private database, to keep track of me. Breaking and entering and kidnapping isn't their style.

"It's someone else. I know it."

Frohike shrugged. "Whatever you say."

Again she fell silent, absorbed in chewing her nail, staring at the bright screen.

Langly broke the silence. "Quinn, if the X-men have so many pictures of you, then . . ."

She looked blankly at him a moment. Frohike turned to watch the two of them. She sighed and gave an unconvincing smile.

"Yeah. I know. Someone else out there has their own private collection of Quinn layouts." Unnecessarily she added, "That's not good."

Even Frohike shook his head slightly.

"Well . . . do you want me to go with you today?" Langly asked uncomfortably. Frohike looked up at his blond partner with obvious confusion on his face. "There's safety in numbers, you know."

"Not against these people, Ringo," Quinn replied offhandedly. She licked her lips nervously, then gave herself a shake. The next smile she gave him was much more natural. "If you come with me, then you might get caught on camera."

Even Langly grinned at the reference to his paranoia.

With even a wider smile—a smile that both men recognized as her feeling confident and invincible—Quinn sidled up quickly to the tall blond. She caught his eyes, and held them. Ignoring the fact that Frohike was three inches away and staring at them, she brazenly maneuvered a hand inside one of the front pockets of his jeans. Langly tensed, and was too startled to move away.

After a few seconds fishing, she retracted her hand with a prize—his twenty sided gaming die. Langly let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding and felt his knees go weak. Giving him an evil grin, Quinn dropped the die to the desk beside Frohike's keyboard. It tumbled wildly a moment, then rested.

The side up was twenty.

Flipping her hair, Quinn licked her lips again, provokingly this time. "Besides, boys, Arioch's feeling lucky today," she declared, and spun on her heel. She walked away, towards the door, confident they couldn't help but stare at her swinging hips in the too tight denim.

Just as the door closed automatically behind her, she heard Frohike exclaim,

"After that display you still want to tell me you two didn't fuck last night?!"

Quinn smiled to herself and skipped up the stairs into the sunlight.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Several hours later, Frohike groaned and rubbed his eyes without removing his glasses. He'd been typing for hours now, looking for links and dodging security devices, and his brain felt numb. So did his fingers. As much as he hated to admit it, eventually he'd have to bite the bullet and have Langly get inside this particular site. It was the only damn one that he could find that could be remotely related to the Genesis Project, too. Whoever set up this site was good, too damn good. He blinked to refocus on the computer monitor.

A buzz from the door made him look up and blink again.

He grimaced as his back cracked as he stood. Wearily he made his way to the door. He squinted at the spycam monitor as he walked stiffly through the electronic devices.

A short-haired blonde woman with sunglasses stood on the other side of the door. She was wearing a sundress and a thin sweater. She raised her finger and tapped politely at the buzzer again as he watched.

"What the hell? This place is becoming Grand Central Station," Frohike grumbled as he methodically made his way through the numerous locks on the door. He left one chain attached as he carefully opened it. "Can I help you?"

"Frohike! Help me bring all this stuff in."

"Quinn?!"

She flashed him a bright smile. "I'm serious! Open up and help. Get Langly too, I've got a lot."

Stunned, similar to the night before, Frohike fumbled the chain free. The sunlight blinded him as he swung the door inward. Quinn grinned again, and as he stepped back, began piling bags just inside the door.

"Where's Langly?" she asked. "Have him take these groceries to the kitchen."

"Langly had to meet Byers," he replied.

"Oh. Well, I guess it's you and me then. Let's get moving, I know you don't like to leave the door open very long. Some MIB could dash passed when our guard is down."

Ignoring his scowl, Quinn stepped inside and grabbed an armful of the plastic bags she'd set beside the door. She made for the kitchen.

Frohike muttered a curse under his breath and shut the door. He heard Quinn set the bags on the counter and start back towards him, her high heels tapping lightly on the concrete floor.

He finished re-securing the locks and turned around to find her already next to him, picking up the rest of the things she'd brought.

"So what do you think?" she asked. She took for granted he knew what she meant. "Do you think someone using those photos would recognize me right away?"

With computer weary eyes, Frohike examined her. Gone was the straight brunette hair hanging down her back. Gone were the tight leather pants and leather duster that hid holsters and sheaths. Gone was the dark, haunted—and angry—look she wore last night when she pounded on their door in a rainstorm.

In her place was a bright, platinum-blonde feminine woman. The hair was short enough to show her ears; a stone glinted at the top of one. The dress was fitted but free flowing. The heels muscled her calves, and Frohike knew her arms were likely the same, but were hidden by the sweater.

"Yeah, that'll do for awhile," he told her gruffly. "But I can't imagine you going without a gun. Where are you gonna pack wearing a get-up like that?"

With a sly smile Quinn took his hand and immodestly forced his fingers along the outside of her thigh. Even as they grazed the buckle and leather of the hostler containing the firearm, Frohike jerked his hand away from her.

"Don't you ever do that!" he spit, glaring at her.

She was the first to break eye contact and step back away. "I-I'm sorry—" she started, but he stomped away, back to his desk.

Frowning, Quinn quietly picked up the bags and made her way to the kitchen.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Goddamn—! Frohike thought blackly as he stared at his computer screen again. He punched the keyboard peevishly, not accomplishing anything but making his fingers sore.

With both Langly and Byers gone, he had no buffer to Quinn. He heard her carefully putting the supplies she'd bought away in the kitchen. Finally the noises stopped. He wondered if she'd gone down the hallway to retreat to Langly's room until his return, but refused to turn to look.

Her voice, softer than he remembered ever hearing it, asked quietly,

"Do you mind if I play some music?"

It made him clench his fingers, causing more pain in the knuckles. Against the rational part of his mind that shouted that she played music even more obnoxious than Langly's—and just as loud as Langly—Frohike gave her a tight shrug.

"Whatever." His voice was clipped.

"Thank you," she replied.

He heard her flipping through CDs and rummaging drawer beside the couch for the remote control to the communal sound system. Even her familiarity of their living quarters grated against his nerves. He ground his teeth, and again refused to look at her.

The sound of the system booting up and the machine reading the disc caused him to tense in preparation of the blast of music. That too, made his fingers hurt, and he abandoned typing to rub his fingers.

Then, instead of screaming guitars and bass so deep it shook through his chest, a swingy drumbeat lead into a jazz song; it was slightly upbeat. Happy, clean music. Easy on the ears, fun to dance to. One of his own CDs, definitely. Indigo Swing.

It surprised him.

So did Quinn stepping quietly up beside him, and setting a Rolling Rock so chilled the bottle was frosty next to his keyboard.

"I'm sorry," she told him.

Now he looked up at her. Lit by the computer monitor, there was a faint blue cast to her face. She gave him a tight smile. He didn't return it.

"Why do you hate me?" she asked.

"I don't—" he blurted, and was stopped by her raised eyebrow and wry smile.

Frohike sighed and looked down.

"I don't hate you, Quinn. Honest. But you're so . . ."

"Slutty?" she supplied.

Her quick term caused him to glance back up. She was grinning.

"Not exactly the way I would have put it," Frohike muttered half under his breath. She caught it and grinned even more broadly. "You're just so—free. When you're around Langly doesn't get any work done. Did you know that Langly started drinking pretty heavily because of you? You disrupt this place. You're happy, even though your 'job' means you hunt people down and kill them. Don't you ever realize what you're doing is wrong?"

Quinn's smile had faded. She found a nearby seat and sank into it. Frohike noticed she had a juice glass in her hand, filled with something that was definitely not juice.

"Frohike, let me tell you a few things," she said. She didn't sound angry or defensive. "I don't have much. I can't do much. I know how to assemble weapons, load weapons, and use them. That's about it.

"There's not much a person can do when they didn't go to school after they were eleven. Even less for people who can barely read. Did you know that? Why do you think I came to you guys to help me with this? Besides the fact you're the smartest three people I know in the world and you can break into computers that most people don't even know exist, I can't read anything I'm handed."

Frohike hadn't known that, but she didn't let him answer.

"And you think that killing people doesn't bother me?" she laughed, a hollow sound, nothing like a her real laugh. "Jesus, Frohike—why the hell do you think I drink so much? Now granted, there are other reasons, but that comprises a bunch of it. It's wrong, I know, and I hate myself for it, but it's how I cope."

She gave a shaky sigh, and habitually raised the glass to her lips. She wanted to drain it, but caught herself, and only sipped it instead. The two sat silently a moment, both digesting the words. Frohike had never had such a long, personal conversation with her. He wasn't quite sure what to think.

"I'm sorry," Quinn repeated. "I never meant to—unload on you like that. I'm really sorry about encouraging Ringo to drink. But I just wondered why you hated me. I mean, all three of you were cool to the fact I'm a mutie. But just for the record, to clear the air—I have to ask . . . is there anything else?

In the face of her honesty, Frohike felt he couldn't lie. With a sigh, he admitted,

"It does have something to do with your . . . sluttiness."

That revelation caused an amused smirk to flit across her lips. She did her best to hide it, but Frohike saw it in her eyes. It was typical Quinn, and infuriating. He told her so, loudly.

"You always look so smug, and it pisses me off!" he announced.

"When it comes to all this—" she waved a hand to around the room, "—you always look smug too, Mel."

"But you're always flirting, teasing . . . you act smug because you know you're hot! You flaunt it all the time, everywhere—" Frohike realized he was blushing, and angry, too, because he never meant to tell her this, and somehow he knew she had planned for this whole situation to happen so she could weasel this information from him, she knew all along, and this was just to torture him, "—you have no shame, and you make me feel like a dirty old man!"

With a start he realized he was on the verge of panting. Quinn was watching him calmly. The faint suggestion of amusement hadn't left her face.

"You're not that old," she replied mildly.

"I'm seventeen years older than Byers, and eighteen more than that long-haired punk!"

"Just more experience, that's all."

The flush in his cheeks made his face hot. "Damn it, Quinn—this is exactly why you completely infuriate me! The flirting, making me run my hand over you, the little sexual innuendoes—"

Quinn held up her hands, unable to stop herself from laughing out loud. "Melvin—stop it!" she chuckled.

"And then you-you laugh—!"

It made her laugh harder, seeing him work up into such a state. "Melvin, you're not helping when you're sputtering and spitting on me!" Dramatically she wiped her face.

"Bitch!"

"That's the spirit!"

Suddenly Frohike became aware they'd slipped back into their old roles of baiting each other. Good-naturedly. Now he knew that was the way she'd always viewed it; he'd been the one taking it too seriously.

He bit his tongue in mid-curse, and laughed aloud with her.

"Good!" Quinn said, still snickering. She managed to raise her juice glass. "Here's to us. Now drink your beer." She took his hand and gave it a squeeze as she stood up.

She didn't miss his wince. Instantly the humor was gone from her voice. "Are you okay? What's wrong?"

"Just damn stiff knuckles," he replied, gingerly taking his hand from hers. "A touch of arthritis. Too many years at the keyboards."

Frohike tried to wave it off and turn away.

She didn't let him. "You want some aspirin?"

"Took it."

"Hmm. You want a massage? I'm pretty good, and it'll make your hands feel better."

He looked up at her suspiciously.

"Seriously! I worked at a massage parlor for awhile."

He rolled his eyes. "Uh-huh. Why doesn't that surprise me? And for a mere 100 more you'd—"

"Melvin Frohike! Get your mind out of the gutter!" she admonished.

Without waiting for him to tell her no, she grabbed his shoulder and pulled him from his chair to the battered leather couch. Before joining him, she took the hem of her dress, unladylike, and twisted off the bottle cap on his beer. She pushed him down and sat beside him, taking his right hand in hers.

Carefully she began manipulating his digits between hers. Despite the sharp pain it caused at the beginning, very soon he had to admit it worked.

Quinn watched the tension dissolve from him. He closed his eyes and leaned back.

"You know," she said loudly, as if just remembering, "actually it was kinda a sleazy place. Only 50 bucks more would get you the special job."

The expression on his face was priceless, and she laughed aloud.

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	3. Drunk and Ready

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Disclaimer: Chris Carter and whomever he decrees own the Lone Gunmen. Stan Lee and whomever he decrees own recognizable Marvel characters. I own nothing. *sighs wistfully*

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Note: Special thanks to two special people, Magdellin and Goose. You both rock. Thanks for giving me a little nudge (okay, a kick) in the hiney! ;~)

Enjoy!

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Drunk and Ready

"This the site?" Langly asked.

"Yeah. I spent a few hours on it this afternoon, but couldn't get any real info from it. There has to be something here. It's the only one I could find that was remotely related to Genesis."

Langly nodded absently, already absorbed in the challenge of breaking through security.

Frohike sat back and crossed his arms.

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As the hackers worked, Quinn sat quietly on their sofa. As much as she hated it, her hands felt restless and occupied themselves with repeatedly filling a glass with whiskey. Her mouth and throat collaborated with her hands and swallowed the alcohol roboticly as well.

By the time Jimmy Bond sauntered through the door, she was more than slightly drunk.

"Who's the boy-toy?" she whooped.

Startled, he stopped in his tracks. A half grin slid across his face.

"Relax, Jimmy," Byers answered. "Not only is she plastered, her tastes run more toward Langly and some guy named Toad."

Frohike snickered. Langly's attention was too rapt on the screen to hear the comment.

Byers caught Jimmy by the arm before he interrupted the other two. "Listen. Why don't you keep Quinn company . . . she's had a hard time lately, and well, you're the best 'people person' of us."

A concerned look wrinkled his brow. "Is that why she's drinking so much?"

"She always drinks a lot. But tonight she's had more than normal. You think you can help us out here?"

Jimmy nodded, determined. "I'll do my best."

"Good man," Byers replied, slapping him on the back and propelling him to the couch.

Byers himself returned to the desk with his partners.

"Man, Byers—that was slick. Thanks for distracting him," Frohike praised.

"No problem. I'd like to have this Quinn's case settled as soon as possible. We do have a newspaper to publish, and every second we spend on her is a second we don't work on it."

"Should've known," muttered the older man under his breath.

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Into the night, Jimmy stayed with Quinn, listening to her rants, propping her up, and secretly refilling her glass with water. He learned, through her slurred and disjointed speeches, that she and Toad had split the Brotherhood when Magneto was imprisoned; that she was able to support them with a large stash of money from previous jobs; and that Jim Beam was the best damn alcohol ever distilled.

Gently he turned her wavering thoughts back to her immediate problem. Quinn told him that she had heard rumors that the Genesis Project was kidnapping mutants. Some of her mutant acquaintances from her old hangouts had gone missing. But she didn't think much of it—most of her acquaintances wandered from city to city without much fanfare. So she never thought that Genesis would be capable of tracking her or Toad down. She used so many aliases she was confident no one could.

Quinn, at this point, broke down and sobbed into Jimmy's shoulder.

"I never-never shoulda left him, Jimmy! I was only gone for a coupla minutes, I swear—but the pricks must've been trailin' me and knew where we lived—when I got back with the p-pizza the door'd been kicked in, the place was a wreck, and Toad was g-gone!

"And-and now they've got him and the longer they have him who knows what they'll do to him and we've got to find him and, and—"

She wailed a few more seconds, causing the Lone Gunmen to stop their work and stare. Jimmy, uncomfortable but sympathetic, slid an arm around her shoulder and soothed her.

"Don't worry, Quinn—we'll find him. Right guys?"

Jimmy threw them a beseeching look. They could only return it with a shrug. By that time, however, Quinn was beyond noticing—she had passed out.

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Through the murky depths of nausea, Quinn could hear muffled voices.

"You think we should wake her?"

"She's your ex, hippie—you do it."

She wanted to open her eyes. They refused. Her shoulder was taken.

"Quinn? Quinn?" a parody of Langly's real voice said, in rhythm with the shaking of her shoulder. "Come on, baby, you've gotta wake up."

"Byers!" called Frohike. His voice always cut through the room the same. "Hurry up with that coffee!"

Langly was still shaking her. "I know you're hung over, but you need to get up."

Go away, she thought. Let me die in peace.

He continued talking and squeezing her arm. "Quinn, we did it. I hacked through that Genesis site and—"

"He could only do it with my help!" Frohike interjected loudly, as if she was deaf as well as sick.

"—now we know where they are—"

"New Jersey, of all places! The Pine Barrens!"

"—so we knew you'd want to get started driving there ASAP, so you have to wake up—"

"Byers, where is that coffee?!"

"—come on, Quinn, we're not going up there alone—"

Quinn sat up abruptly and demanded, "Why didn't you say so in the first place? Let's go find those bastards."

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	4. Finding

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Disclaimer: once again, I own no recognizable characters or situations. Please, may no one take offense. (That kinda sounds like a prayer!)

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Note: I'll be honest, faithful reader—I felt the first two chapters of this little work were going no where. I think they just drug on and on . . . and I think had I continued with The Lone Gunmen and Quinn tracking the Genesis Project down, the same would have happened. It would have taken about a hundred pages to get to this chapter here. So! I've saved you the agony of reading through long babblings, and jumped right to the point.

The idea behind this came from a big news story near where I live. More on that below!

Enjoy!

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Finding

Toad was sobbing, hysterical, clinging to her as if to a life raft. His fingers squeezed her arms too tightly. Quinn soothed him, whispering soft words into his ear and stroking his hair. The Lone Gunmen faded to the back of her vision and attention.

Few of what words he was able to form were understandable.

"Your hair—" she was able to make out.

"It'll grow back, it'll grow back," she promised.

He continued to press against her desperately.

Eventually, Quinn was able to detach herself enough to tell him, "We've got to go, Mortimer. Come on, let's get out of here."

Ungracefully Toad complied as she helped him up. Once vertical, he took clumsy steps forward and cried out in pain. The reason became clear.

Quinn gasped. She heard the Gunmen behind her do the same.

Toad's thin pants were quickly soaking through with fresh blood. He stood shakily for a second, his liquid eyes filled with humiliation, before he whispered, "I'm sorry, Quinn," and collapsed back to the floor.

Quinn sank with him. She cradled his head.

"What did they do to you? Mortimer, tell me!"

He turned his face away from her, ashamed. New sobs choked him and jerked his body awkwardly.

Quinn glanced over him again. Slow dawning came to her as she realized the blood pooled near his groin.

"Oh god . . . oh god . . .." she repeated, stuck.

Frohike, ever the practical one when it came to injuries, appeared by her side.

"Let me help," he said quietly. "The bleeding has to stop."

Quinn let him take over Toad's immediate care. As Frohike attended him, Quinn gently released his head and stood up. He barely seemed aware she left him. She stumbled her way to the door of the cell.

Byers and Langly stood there, mostly helpless. As Quinn shuffled nearer to them, both men made an effort to take her shoulders.

"Quinn, take deep breaths," Byers instructed.

"Quinn—" Langly said no more as he tried to pull her into a hug.

She pushed him away. An animal look had come to her eye. Langly had the feeling she didn't really see him, only through him. She stalked down the short hallway, away from the cell.

"Quinn, what are you doing?" cried Byers, panicked.

Langly, not rebuffed, hurried after her.

Quinn picked up speed, fueled by rage, and kicked in the door to the make-shift lab. It hurt her foot, but she ignored it and stomped to the two men tied tightly to chairs. They were the only two she and the Gunmen had found in this place. It had been Frohike's idea to tie them up.

The two had been whispering to each other when Quinn kicked the door. They looked at her defiantly as she came to them.

"You'll never stop us, mutant," one sneered at her. "We are superior! You are an abomination of nature—"

Quinn stopped by the closer of the two. She took a handful of his hair and yanked his head back, soliciting a gasp from him. His companion was still going on about mutant menace, the mutant freaks.

"Open your mouth!" she screamed, six inches from his face.

Startled, he stared at her with dilated eyes.

"Open your mouth!" she screamed again, and punctuated it with the barrel of her handgun slammed painfully against his lips and teeth.

His eyes wide, he complied.

Quinn thrust the barrel into his mouth and pulled the trigger.

"Oh Jesus—" gagged Langly, bile in his throat. He scrambled backward through the door, retching, unable to remain in the room. He called for Byers to help, hysteria cracking his voice.

"You," Quinn spit, turning abruptly to the dead man's partner. His speech had been choked off mid-tirade as bit of bone and gore splattered him. He stared, frozen, at Quinn's gun, the barrel still dripping with blood. She aimed the firearm at him. "You tell me the names of every one of the people involved with this."

The man, still attempting to exert defiance, managed to reply, "I'll never give the information to you, freak—"

The bullet that tore through his right knee dissolved his words into screams.

Byers, outside the door, holding Langly up as he vomited, flinched. He heard her repeat her request, "you tell me the names," calmly. The man's screams had faded to blubbering and pleading. He heard the ominous cocking of the pistol again. The man, his voice now punctuated with sobs, began reciting a list of names.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The man was done. He was now begging for his life, a desperate, whining bargaining that Byers knew fell on deaf ears.

Quinn, still speaking calmly, told him what he had to do to save his life. With a sob of relief the man agreed.

Byers, still standing out of sight in the hallway, listened to Quinn untie the man. He heard the shuffling of papers and the scratch of a pen on them. He caught Quinn's instructions, telling the man to write that the Genesis Project was wrong, that he was sorry for it, and that every member of the group had best stop. She made him repeat the last line, adding that Arioch would be hunting them down.

In a few seconds, the writing stopped.

"Sit here," Quinn ordered, and Byers realized she was walking to the door.

Stepping through, she didn't seem surprised Byers was waiting there. She thrust a piece of paper at him.

"Did he write what I said?" she demanded.

Glancing over it, Byers nodded, afraid his voice would betray him if he tried to answer aloud. Quinn grabbed it away from him and turned back into the room.

"Arioch, the demon of vengeance," Byers heard her tell the man. "She'll find your friends."

The man babbled something about changing, and letting the others know, and thanking her for his life.

Byers jumped as a shot rang out. The sound of something heavy collapsed out of a chair to the floor. There was a sudden crashing, breaking noise, along with Quinn's cursing.

Still afraid to stick his head in the door, Byers waited until Quinn exited the room. She shoved the hard drive to the Genesis computer at him without a word, then walked back down the hall. Byers followed her, clutching the equipment, unable to form any coherent thoughts as to what just transpired.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Quinn found Langly and Frohike outside the cell. Langly couldn't look at her. The building wasn't large, and the shots she had fired had been heard by both of them. Toad, on the floor, reached for her. She knelt beside him. Turning to Frohike, she asked,

"What exactly did they do to him?"

Frohike paused.

"Tell me!" Her voice had a hard edge to it.

"They castrated him," he answered softly. "He's lost a lot of blood."

Quinn's knees felt weak and involuntarily she sat. There was silence among the group.

Finally she caught her breath and in a much more subdued tone said, "Let's get out of here. Can someone help me support him?"

Frohike nodded. Together they assisted a wobbly Toad out through the building to the waiting van. The other two followed, and climbed into the front seat. After settling Toad on the floor, Frohike dared to ask,

"What are you going to do, Quinn?"

"I'm going to track down every single person ever involved in the Genesis Project and kill them," she replied matter-of-factly. "The data on that hard drive will help."

Under her penetrating stare, Frohike could only nod in agreement.

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note (cont.): This idea stemmed from the news that a transsexual woman castrated her husband of one day (!) in a make-shift surgery room in their house. The husband died of choking on his own vomit from pain afterward. She's being charged with murder.

Something else—a person I work with knows her! Like they say: the truth is stranger than fiction.


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